Steel Song
by DeathBladeVI
Summary: Rickon Stark returns to the North and to exact vengeance on those that killed his family. As Westeros is heading back into chaos, a southern lord is killed in the Riverlands, whispers that a princess and a queen once thought dead are returning, and a bastard that has grown wiser seeks to find the last remnants of his broken family.
1. The Black Wolf

The Black Wolf Returns

320 AL

"There was at least five thousand," the dripping Glover said uneasily. He was in the Great Hall of Winterfell, watching as the assembled lords of the North looked at him. Gawen Glover, the Master of Deepwood Motte, and the remnants of his strength, all one thousand of his men, had fled to Winterfell after Aggon Greyjoy, the son of Asha Greyjoy, had sailed up the western coast and taken it.

It had been almost twenty years since the War of Five Kings. The North had been attacked by the ironborn, ravaged by the Others before Jon Snow rose and destroyed them. There were no dragons, there were no stories. The Long Night had been thrusted upon the North again, but Jon Snow had killed the Great Other and the Others dispersed. Dead. No longer able to rise up. Jon Snow had then been not seen again, heading east to find something.

Stannis Baratheon had perished in the fights against the Others. He and his host had fallen against the cold and the Others, but not before he had proven the words of his house, Ours is the Fury. Shireen Baratheon had barely managed to escape south with Justin Massey, who took her across the Narrow Sea. The surviving child of Stannis Baratheon had not been heard from in nearly twenty years.

Tommen Baratheon, though most thought him of Lannister, had destroyed Aegon Targaryen and his petty army of sellswords. Storm's End was taken by his forces, but not before Randyll Tarly had killed Jon Connington in single combat with Heartsbane. Daenerys Targaryen still lingered in the East, ruling over the burnt remnants of Slaver's Bay. Aegon was dead, a dragon crown placed mockingly on his head.

Many things had happened in the last twenty years. Most of the old lords were dying, and new ones were sprouting up. Alys Karstark and her wildling husband were amongst the people in the Great Hall of Winterfell, having sworn fealty to Tommen after Stannis's demise north of the wall. Roose Bolton and his ilk, Ramsay, had been killed and the Bolton line nearly extinguished. There was no Warden of the North. The Dreadfort was ruled by a man that claimed to be the son of Jeyne Poole and Ramsay Bolton. He had his father's eyes, but not his father's demeanor. He was like Roose Bolton, cold and calculating. He wasn't stupid like his father.

"Five thousand ironmen? Impossible! The ironmen are still recovering from their thrice-damned campaign against the Reach nearly twenty years ago!" Lord Hotheen Umber roared. He was the eldest son of the Greatjon, stood strong and proud like his father. The Gods had made Hotheen Umber large and built like a bull. Thick muscles strained in his neck as he barked. He fought with a battleaxe, a massive axe that could cleave a man in half with one swing.

"Aye, but the iron bitch and her son are still raiding. Ever since that Iron Fleet of theirs limped back to the Iron Islands after failing to find the Dragon Queen."

The Iron Fleet had helped repel Paxter Redwyne fleet at the Battle of the Sunset Sea. The Iron Islands remained independent, but only because they were smart and had accepted Asha Greyjoy and her son. Otherwise...they would have been destroyed. It had taken all the persuasion power and raw power of Harlaw to persuade the rest of the Iron Islands to accept Asha. The Reader was the right hand man of Asha.

"We should marshall our strength and march on Deepwood Motte. Five thousand ironmen aye, but we are of the North, and if this iron bitch things she can scare us, we should show her otherwise!" a knight wearing Manderly colors shouted. The other knights of Lord Wylis Manderly also shouted their approval. Lord Wylis raised his meaty hand, each of them thick as sausages. He wasn't as fat as his father, but he was fat, though he could still ride a horse.

"What Ser Barmund says is true; we must marshal our strength. The Iron Throne has no love for us because of our rebellion twenty years ago, but what must we do? We are not united. Without the Starks we have been squabbling between ourselves for too long. So I say again, who shall lead us?" he asked and the hall became silent. Men of Karhold, sworn to Alys Karstark and her wildling husband were up, saying that the Magnar should lead; after all, he was a great raider who had fought against the Others. Men of Deepwood Motte disagreed; he might have fought against the Others, but so did every other Lord and man older than thirty in the Great Hall. Umber men shouted for their lord, while Bolton men shouted for theirs. Hornwood, Cerwyn, and Tallhart men shouted for their respective Ryswell and Dustin men stayed quiet as their old lady, Lady Barbary Dustin, studied with a careful eye.

"My lords!" came the shout from Hotheen, his spittle raining down on the wooden tables, lit by the hearth. "We cannot continue to squabble like this. One of us must lead, otherwise we will throw ourselves against the ironborn with nothing but our own respective men. None of us has the power to throw the iron bitch's son out of Deepwood Motte. I can barely marshal two thousand swords, let alone five thousand. They are reavers and it looks like that iron bitch is here to stay. We have reports from the Stony Shore and other places that the ironmen are raiding in numbers not seen since Dagon Greyjoy tried to restore the old way."

Hotheen Umber might not have been the smartest man in the Seven Kingdoms, but he was one of the fiercest. He had fought against widling raiders that tried to take his animals and his people, clashed against the wildlings that were from south of the Wall, and even fought against Karhold over a dispute. He had killed and he had laughed when he killed. He was man of honor though, one that would follow a liege lord till death, and maybe even after.

"But who?! Again, no one seems to understand that. Winterfell must be lead by a Stark. But what Stark? Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Bran Stark, Robb Stark, Rickon Stark, Jon Snow, all of these people are dead or across the Narrow Sea! Rickon Stark was supposed to be found by the smuggler, but instead, all we have is the broken remnants of his bones and his boat! Everytime we sent a boat or a messenger to Skagos, it has not been answered. I say again, my lords, for what I have been saying so far since the ironmen arrived. Who shall lead us!" Wylis Manderly yelled. The hall went silent once more.

Then the horn sounded.

Each man turned to face the doors to the Great Hall of Winterfell. Five men were standing there, wearing boiled leather and mail, each of them wearing the sigil of House Magnar, a green lobster on white, its claws holding a black harpoon. Each of them had a spear or a longsword, each of them was silent and deadly. The men of Skagos were said to break their fast on human flesh, that they were dreaded. Not one man had stepped foot on Skagos since Eddard Stark, the old Lord of Winterfell.

"What in Seven Hells are Skaggs doing here?" a Manderly knight asked vicious-like. The men of Skagos were not welcomed. They were not wanted.

"We are Skagosi. Stoneborn. Treat us with respect," the eldest of the Magnar men said in the Old Tongue. Wilding serjeants of House Thenn hissed back in the Old Tongue, while Sigorn looked with displeasure.

"I'll treat the bloody Glovers with respect before I dare respect you, human eating bastards!" Hotheen Umber shouted back, and his men shouted their wishes for the Skaggs. The eldest Magnar man, a greybeard of perhaps fifty, glared at him, sending a scornful look that would have killed the Umber if looks could kill.

"We have a present for you. Arnolf, bring the lad," the greybeard shouted and a Magnar man moved silently back outside.

The hall went silent once more. What were these Skagosi trying to do? What was so important to interrupt a meeting between the lords of the North?

Before anyone of them could ask, a howl was heard. Followed by two, then three, then four more howls. Then the Great Hall's doors were flung open.

In stepped the most massive wolf any man had seen since Grey Wind. Black fur, intersected by gray, lined the body of a wolf that was as large as any pony's. Bright, brilliant, green eyes stared at them. His teeth snapped and he growled, but was quiet when a man walked in.

The man was large. He stood at least six feet tall, taller than anyone besides Hotheen Umber. His hair was auburn. His hair was long and shaggy, going down to his shoulders. His eyes were a vivid blue. His eyes were wild and ferocious. His teeth bared, he was clad in mail and boiled leather, while a cloak clasped by the direwolf of House Stark hung from his back.

"I hear you need a man to lead you. Is this how low the North has sunken? Has the North forgotten? What are our words? The North Remembers! Have we sunk so low that we cannot find a man to lead us? _Have we_?" the man challenged. His voice was a roar, his challenge might by a sea of shouts. His lips curved in a smile.

"And who is Seven hells are you boy? Who dares thinks they can speak to_ Lord Hotheen Umber of Last Hearth like you have?_" the Lord of Last Hearth shouted back, his voice a hammer. The Umber men also shouted back, their faces red to show their support for their lord.

"Who am I? I am Rickon Stark, rightful Lord of Winterfell, the last of my house. I am the heir of Robb Stark, the King in the North. And who are you, who dares speak out against _their rightful lord_?" the man shouted back with viciously. The Lords of the North went silent. Was this who they thought it was? It couldn't be. There had been no Starks for twenty years and they have forgotten.

"Where is our vengeance against the Lannisters? The Freys who killed him at his uncle's wedding? What has happened to our spirit that we let some bastard born of incest reign over us? _Have we forgotten? Have we_?" Rickon challenged. The assembled Lords and their men answered. Each one of them stood up and faced the Lord.

"_The North Remembers! The Black Wolf has returned!"_ an Umber man shouted, the giant on his sigil seemingly grinning. He ripped his sword from his scabbard and bent the knee.

"I swear upon my sword to Lord Rickon Stark of House Stark. I swear I will uphold his laws, fight for him in his wars, honor him when honor is due. I will never forsake my oath, or else may the Old Gods and the weirwood trees remember. Let this be heard by all the men in this hall," the Umber man swore. That lead to a torrent of swords scraping from their scabbards and hundreds of men bending the knee at once, a sea of voices swearing their allegiance to their new found lord.

And as Rickon Stark looked at his men, his sworn swords and his newfound bannermen, he smiled. He would root the ironmen out of Deepwood, drive them from his lands, and after that, get vengeance on the Houses that dared to kill his family. His direwolf looked straight at him.

And as the sound of rejoicing was heard, the puncture of a long howl went through the night, heralding the return of the Black Wolf.

**So, I'm working on a new story. I've deleted the ones I won't be working on at all, and I'm rewriting The Black Star Emerges and And So We Rise. I'm also working on a new Elder Scrolls story that will replace Songs of Skyrim that I just deleted. So cheers. **

**-DeathBladeVI**


	2. Aemon Steelsong

Aemon Steelsong was not a pious man of the Seven, nor would he ever would be. That was what saved his life that day.

It was an early morning in the Riverlands, where his liege lord, Dickon Tarly, was visiting in an attempt to build better relations with his wife's people. The thirty year old lord was praying in the sept with his knights. The fool had brought only a handful of knights and sworn swords. Aemon was perhaps the only sworn sword in his lord's retinue that didn't pray to the Seven. Aemon had been brought up in the faith of the Old Gods by his mother, a servant girl by the name of Gilly. His mother was sweet and brave.

The attack had come right as the suns parted the clouds from their vigil, letting golden sun stream onto the tiny village where Lord Tarly and his knights were praying in the sept. Lord Tarly of Horn Hill was no pious man, but he did pray to the Warrior and to the Mother, to the Builder, and all that nonsense. Aemon had been dicing with three men at arms that were sworn to local lord, who was Lord Vypren, when suddenly he heard the drawing of bowstrings and the thrum of arrows being shot into the sky. He listened, breathed, and saw that the three men at arms with the black toad and lily pad sewn on their surcoats swear, drawing their swords as they went to check out what in the Seven Hells was going on. Almost immediately one of them dropped to the ground, an arrow lodged in his throat, his life's blood spilling onto the dirt ground.

Aemon then went up as well, his hand on his sword. He was dressed in boiled leather and mail, while a brooch clasped his cloak to his body. The brooch was a striding huntsman with his arrow drawn on his bow, signifying his allegiance to House Tarly. The other two men at arms hid behind the building where they had been dicing.

Aemon's heart started to pound. Who in their right mind would try to attack a lord? He quietly went over to the corner of the building, where the two men at arms were, both of whom were swearing and readying their swords for something.

"What in Seven Hells just happened?" he asked furiously. His sword was drawn and his blood was pumping.

"We got trouble. At a dozen men outside the sept, with good longbows, better armor and better swords than any bandit I've ever seen. Rat over there thought they were just ordinary bandits and he got an arrow in the neck for his troubles," a man at arms said, his face shaped like a weasel.

"A _dozen? _What the hell is going on?" Aemon demanded. That was his liege lord in there and the Seven or not, he was going to try and get him.

"They fired fire arrows into the sept. It's burning. Told that fucking lord that stone was better than fucking wood, but no, the fucker had save money for his precious fucking wall," the other man at arms said his voice a whip. It seemed like that he was a native of the village, because his voice was in disbelief, mixed with anger and fear.

"My lord is in there. _Lord Dickon Tarly is in there. _His son and his wife are in there. We have to get them out!" Aemon whispered. He whipped his head over the corner of the building they were leaning against, when he saw the handiwork of his enemies.

As the men at arms said, a dozen men dressed in boiled leather and mail were firing arrows into the sept. It didn't take long for Aemon to realize that these were professionals, not a bunch of scruffy bandits. Each of them had a longbow that would have taken years to master and yet each of them wielded it like it was second nature. They were either mercenaries hired by someone to kill his lord or they were castle-trained troops sent out to kill his lord. Either way, it didn't matter. They had to die.

But how? He was a good swordsman, one of the best in Horn Hill, but all of them had bows. He was a decent bowman, but against a dozen archers was suicide.

He looked at the two men at arms, who were lost. They must have been thinking the same thing.

"What the hell are we going to do? We're outnumbered," the weasel faced man at arms said unnecessarily.

Aemon's mind raced. It was suicide, but he needed to do it. _Why else would my lord place his trust in me? _His plan raced in his mind, weighing the risks and the benefits. As he was about to tell his comrades, the doors to the sept burst open, and smoke poured out. A woman, wearing a dress made of rich velvet and with long hair wrapped in a braid, stepped out, coughing violently. She looked up and saw the dozen bowmen looking at her.

She let out a single plea before half a dozen arrows feathered her. Her pleas went to screams as the pain took over, before a final arrow silenced her. Aemon looked away. The pure butchery and blackness of the act sickened him. He had fought before; he had been part of his lord's expedition to Fair Isle, freeing it from the raiders of the Iron Islands that had attacked it. But the raiders were poor fuckers left by their Queen to die by the sword. That had been a hard fight, but it had been a fair fight. Not a ducks in a pond.

Whoever had planned the attack had done so with great care, minimizing risk while maximizing benefits. No swords were allowed in the sept, unless you were planning an all-night vigil.

As the woman went down screaming, two more men filed out, their hands in their mouths as they attempted to block the smoke from entering their lungs. One of them stumbled straight into the arms of a waiting man, before his throat was slit from ear to ear. It was a red smile. Aemon recognized him. That was Ser Richard Awning, one of the youngest knights in his lord's retinue. His pale skin was stained with his blood, as he was thrown to the ground, dead as a man could be.

The second man was Lord Tarly himself. He was on the ground, having been hit in the knee with a single arrow. He looked up, his eyes full of hatred and scorn for his enemies. That was what Aemon liked about Dickon; he was fearless and didn't flinch in the heat of the battle. He had lived up to his father's reputation, though being killed unarmed wasn't a great way to go.

"Who are you?" the Lord boomed, his voice a sickly rasp due to the smoke. For a moment, no one answered, but then an archer stepped up, his face covered by a long piece of black cloth. The man spoke, his voice muffled by his cloth.

"We are the Brotherhood. We are not with Banners. We will never allow a pawn of the bastard king ever set foot in the Riverlands, let alone a lord. You made a mistake coming here Lord Tarly. Because of you, your son will die, your wife will die, and you will die. The Lord of Light demands it," the man said and each of the other archers nodded their assent.

"You are pawns of a red priest? HA! The Others take you. Fuck you and your Red God. Fuck you and your band of merry outlaws. You killed my men in a holy place. I hope you burn in Seven Hells you dishonorable bastards!" the Lord spit in defiance of the Red God. One of them, dressed in the poor robes of a man of the Poor Fellows, stepped forward, his hand brandished with a seven pointed star. His hand was clasping a iron cudgel.

"I'm sorry milord," the man said quietly, before whipping his hand back and brought the cudgel down on Dickon Tarly, the Lord of Horn Hill, son of Randyll Tarly, and the Shield of the Mander, and the most experienced war leader that the Reach had, died, his skull split in half by a massive iron cudgel. The Poor Fellow then yelled.

"Get those false worshippers in the building!" the man yelled, pointing to Aemon. _Shit. _Aemon watched as five men started to run towards him, their legs pumping. Aemon hadn't seen combat since Fair Isle, but he was a strongly built lad and he wouldn't go down without a fight. His rage started to build and he went into battle, his sword out. He was the son of Gilly the Serving Girl and Maestar Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch. He was a bastard, yet he had a name. He was _Steelsong, _and his steel would sing and kill. Brown hair, brown eyes, he looked like his mother, but he was long and strong, built to kill.

His sword rang, steel on steel, with a scruffy man that looked to be twenty or so. The enemy yelled, his spittle dampening Aemon's face, but Aemon spun to his side, his sword slicing through the air. The bandit barely had enough time to whip his sword in time to block it, only for Aemon to reverse at the last second and with a thunderous roar, he was thrusting his sword straight into the man's chest. He was mad, the battle fury starting to take over. He felt like he was the fire, a flame in the darkness that had taken over this village. He let the blade slide out of the man's chest, his sword sticky with the man's blood. The man collapsed to the ground, dead.

One of the man at arms went down with a spear in his belly, slimy entrails gliding out. He was screaming for his mother and the Mother, but the Gods weren't responding. He felt pity for the man. No one should die with a spear thrust to the belly. Aemon then ducked as a sword came whistling. The sword missed by mere inches, embedding itself into the wood of the building. Cursing, the man, built strong and dressed in fine mail, jerked it out of the building and slashed at Aemon. Aemon parried it to the right, trying to open up the man for an attack, but it wasn't working. He went low then high, then to the side, but the man was castle-trained most likely, just like Aemon. But Aemon had learned a few things from fighting the raiders on Fair Isle.

The two locked blades, both of them trying to overpower the other. Aemon was slightly smaller, so the man tried to use his height to push the weight of his body down, and then Aemon slid his foot, trapping the other man's. He then pivoted to the right, his right foot staying still, while the left foot smashed into the other man's leg. This forced the man to disengage, as he tripped over Aemon's foot, and unable to find his balance, crashed into the ground. He scrambled, barely avoiding Aemon's blade, before rising up, his sword poised for a downward arc. He never made it, for a sword took him in his chest, emerging and blood was starting to pool. He looked down, before the blade slid out smoothly, lubricated by the blood. The man then fell to his knees, mumbling half remembered prayers to his Red God. Then the sword took his head clean off.

"Thanks," Aemon said, his voice soft. He had fought against two opponents and had survived. The man at arms waved it away, cleaning the blood off with a rag. Aemon felt his head start to clear once more, the battle fury going away. He heard the noise of steel ringing on steel. He peeked from the corner of the building that he had just fought behind and saw five men, dressed in mail and wielding the twin towers of Frey on their surcoats, were on horseback, lead by a man dressed in gray plate. The man wheeled his horse around, his sword like a serpent's tongue, catching another bandit in the head. The Brotherhood, having lost at least ten men, departed, retreating to the north of the town. The five men then spotted Aemon, his sword still out and bloody, and they brandished their swords, but then they saw the huntsman of House Tarly on his surcoat, announcing his alleigance to the slained lord.

Aemon Steelsong, the son of Gilly and Sam Tarly, stepped out, before sheathing his sword. He saw the man, a _Frey_, a dishonorable coward that had killed the King in the North at a wedding. A man should not be killed at a Wedding. There was no honor in that. He growled.

The man dismounted. He was tall, rather well-built, and a _lord, _not a common man. He then walked up to Aemon Steelsong. He spoke with power.

"I am Olyvar Frey, Lord of the Crossing. Who are you?"

* * *

**So, here is the next chapter. I will explain more about how Olyvar Frey became the Lord of the Crossing. But hey, you meet Aemon Steelsong. How do you like that? Also, thank you for all the support!**

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	3. Rickon

Rickon Stark looked at the Great Hall. The sigils of the houses of the North were everywhere. The Giant of Umber. The horse of Ryswell. The mermaid of Manderly. The sunburst of House Thenn. Each of them had sworn to him. Each of them _remembered_. He petted Shaggydog as the direwolf cracked a chicken bone with his razor-sharp teeth.

_It has been nearly twenty years since Ser Davos set foot on Skagos._ Ser Davos Seaworth, the Hand of the King to King Stannis Baratheon, had been sent there by Lord Wyman Manderly to get him. Skagosi had captured him and brought him to Rickon, where the young lord had spared his life. Ser Davos had then spent the next fifteen years teaching Rickon Stark all he needed to know. The Skagosi had sent his boat back to White Harbor with bones of a dead man. The old Onion Knight had resolved to teach him, as the two watched the Long Night begin. The Others had attacked Skagos, but the combined might of the houses of Skagos had dashed the small force that the Others had sent.

Ser Davos had taught him. His letters. His birthright as a Stark. His numbers. He had taught him honor and duty, raising him as a son. _"Justice," _Ser Davos had once said_,"is the true way of the North and of Stannis Baratheon."_ Ser Davos had died five years ago of a sickness that the Skagosi couldn't heal.

Osha had also died, but not before teaching the Old Tongue and the ways of the free folk. Wildlings the rest of the realm called them. But he called them free folk. He would have to sort out Tormund Giantsbane, who ruled the Gift, if he ever sent raiders to the south, however.

The person he would keep an eye on was Domeric Bolton. The son of Jeyne Poole and Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton, he had his father's eyes but none of his father's mannerisms. He was shrewd and cautious, cold and calculating. He was very much like his grandfather. However, in his eyes still held shreds of trust, still held shreds of honor and duty. He might have been like his grandfather, but he knew what happened to him, and was lucky to even have a lordship and castle. His lands were still vast and he still flew the flayed man.

_Our blades are sharp._ Those were the words of House Bolton, words that had haunted the Starks for years. It had been the Boltons that had killed several Kings of Winter, had rebelled against them. It was the Boltons that had betrayed his family to the Lannisters. But something was different about Domeric. He didn't know what, but he knew that Domeric was most likely the most loyal of his bannermen. He still couldn't believe it had been that easy.

_Like Shaggy killing a deer_. He had strode into the Great Hall, like it was his name-day, and all of them had sworn to him just like that. He needed a household guard. He looked at his bannermen and saw the man that had sworn to him first. He wore the giant of Umber on his surcoat and he was built like one too. Massive, with arms that were thick with muscles. Like most of the men in the room, he wore fur and mail, along with boiled leather. Next to him was a massive warhammer, all cold and black, while he had dark shaggy brown hair and a shaggy brown beard. A longsword was sheathed on his belt. He was built like a bear, he looked he should have been sworn to House Mormont, and not House Umber.

_Hmm...he seems like a good start for my household guard. _Every lord had a household guard, consisting of their best troops.

Five thousand ironmen. That was a lot of ironborn and the ironborn were known for their ferocity in a fight. A hundred was problem; five thousand was an invasion. He shifted in his seat. He had heard tales of Aggon Greyjoy, the Prince of the Iron Isles.

It was said he was born of a kraken and Asha Greyjoy, right after Asha had escaped from the destruction of Stannis Baratheon, who had fought through the Seven Hells to give Jon Snow, Rickon's brother, enough time to escape north of the Wall. Aggon had been born right after the events of the Long Night, and with him in tow, Asha Greyjoy returned to the Iron Isles and slayed Euron Greyjoy in single combat. The power of the Reach's fleet had been shattered by the Iron Fleet, right after they had sailed back from trying to find The last Dragon.

Asha then declared the independence of the Iron Isles once more and without Stannis Baratheon, or the fleets of the respective houses to oppose her, the reavers of the Iron Isles could attack up and down the coast. If he was to take the Lannisters and destroy them, he would need to take care of the Greyjoys first and end the feud between the Iron Isles and the North.

"My lord, if I can speak to you, there is a great many things that I would tell you," Lord Wylis said to him, whispering. Rickon nodded and the fat lord got up, three knights surrounding him.

They walked forward into a side hall, Shaggydog right behind them. The massive direwolf was still as threatening as he was twenty years ago. Despite being old and gray, he was the protector of Rickon.

"My lord, it is extremely good to see you. My lord father was wondering all these years before his death about where you were. He sent the smuggler Davos Seaworth to find you. We have been struggling. Ironborn on our shores, House Lannister and Frey still standing. House Baratheon practically extinct. We have no purpose. Until you arrived my lord. The North Remembers," Wylis said cooly. Wylis Manderly was a fat man, not as fat as his father, but fat enough.

"Asha Greyjoy and her ilk betrayed us. They attacked us while they should have attacked House Lannister. You are correct Lord Manderly, that they need to be dealt with. But how? We can kick them out of our shores, but they will just come back. We need to destroy the Iron Isles, like Robert Baratheon should have done thirty years ago," Rickon said, pounding his fist into his hand.

Wylis raised an eyebrow before continuing to speak.

"Aye, he should have. But I have something to say. Twenty years ago, your brother gave my father leave to build a fleet at his command. He built over ninety ships, all of them still crewed and manned to this day. He was working on a plan to attack King's Landing before King Robb was betrayed and slain at the Red Wedding," Wylis informed Rickon. That was interesting news. How could he use that to his advantage?

With those ninety ships he would have complete dominance over the eastern shores of Westeros. With virtually the entire royal fleet destroyed and not being rebuilt and the Lannister fleet staying in Lannisport to defend their own lands, how would they manage to challenge the Northern fleet, a fleet not seen since Brandon the Burner?

His mind then went racing. With those ships, if they could transfer to the western coast, they would be able to invade the Iron Isles. Seaguard would be the likeliest place, since it was a sturdy castle that had been built to withstand Ironborn invasions. If they could take Pyke and kill Asha Greyjoy, then the ironmen would surrender and he would tear down their isles into the waves. He would not let Aggon Greyjoy go unaccounted however.

"Lord Manderly, how would an invasion of the Iron Isles be feasible?" he asked and the Lord looked shocked.

"Well my lord, we would need to transfer all the ships from White Harbor to wherever, most likely Seaguard or Flint's Fingers, assemble them and load them with the men. We would also need to smash the Iron Fleet like Stannis Baratheon did at Fair Isle thirty years ago. My lord, it would be a tremendous undertaking!" Wylis Manderly admitted.

"But first we would need to kick out the ironmen from Deepwood Motte and the Stony Shore," Rickon said somberly. Of course he would need to do that. Restoring House Glover to their seat would work best for them, especially since they wouldn't have five thousand ironmen on their flank.

Aggon Greyjoy was trying to assert his right as Prince. He was an experienced fighter, having raided the Riverlands in strength not since Dagon Greyjoy had tried to resurrect the Old Way. He had sacked Fair Isle, retook the Shield Isles form the Reach, and even captured the Arbor after a three month siege. He was barely twenty years old and yet he was the most promising commander seen since Robb Stark.

However, Rickon was not without experience as well. He had fought against the Weeper's raiders from Beyond the Wall, fought against slavers trying to capture Northerners, even fought against a Karhold raid on Skagos. The North was now reunited, brothers in arms once again.

"Aggon Greyjoy is experienced, but he has been fighting against the weak south. They have no will to fight, especially since the bastard king sits on the throne. The Faith Militant still runs rampant and I have closed off White Harbor to the south. He thinks because he has slayed a few hundred Glovers that will work for him. But he will gather his strength at Deepwood until he feels ready to march on the rest of the North. He is overstretched. House Tallhart is resisting him on the Stony Shore, the clans in the Wolfswood are resisting him near Deepwood. I even hear that House Mormont is shoring up their defenses, not seen since Dagon Greyjoy," Wylis remarked. It was truly remarkable what an outside force can do to unite a bunch of squabbling northmen.

"We need to march. I want all the lords assembled before me at the breaking of the fast tomorrow. We need to discuss how to break Aggon Greyjoy before we strike back at the Iron Isles proper. Asha Greyjoy is no fool and neither is her son. We have to do this soon, because _winter is coming_."

Wylis Manderly bowed before leaving to do Rickon's orders. Shaggydog was curled up in a ball, sleeping, but alert. Rickon smiled before bending down and giving the large direwolf a pat on the back.

He needed to defeat Aggon Greyjoy to solidify that he would take the ironmen seriously. Aggon Greyjoy, he heard, was trying to restore the Iron Isles hegemony they had before Aegon the Conqueror had arrived. He wanted to be like Harwyn Hoare, a man that had taken the Riverlands from the Storm King. He wanted the North to bow down to him and if they did, he would be the only one in the history of Westeros to take the North, which had never fallen to a conqueror in battle. He would the true commander of men. Tales would be told of how he conquered the North.

Rickon Stark, the youngest son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, the Lord of Winterfell, and the rightful King in the North, would never let that happen. He stopped and finally knew how he could destroy the ironmen in Deepwood. Like Stannis Baratheon did twenty years ago, he would drive them from the castle and take their ships and burn them. But for that, he would need a people not seen since Stannis had sent them back to their homes and had went to fight against the Others. A strong, but poor people.

He would need the mountain clans.

As the plan went formulating in his head a sudden uproar was going on, the second time that night. Each of the respective lords and their men were looking at a man with the mailed fist of Glover panting, his sword stained with blood. He was scared, Rickon could see that, but everybody else was trying to make sense of what the man was babbling about.

"Aggon...Greyjoy...has taken Torrhen's Square. He is...marshaling his forces for an attack on the Rills...Three thousand more ironmen have joined him form the Stony Shore...he is coming!" the Glover man babbled. Each of the lords looked to Rickon. The Black Wolf looked back at them.

"Marshal your forces. For at dawn, we march."

* * *

More background! I will be writing Aggon Grejoy next. To all of my reviewers, thanks for your support! I like writing Rickon, though it is kinda hard to make him out as a lord since he grew up on Skagos. To Blorg13, this is it. You won't see Rickon for properly another one or two chapters, depending on where I go with the whole Aggon vs Rickon thing and other events happening.


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